Cake
by TimeTravelerAluwa
Summary: It's the biggest cooking competition of the year, and Arthur just wants everything to go smoothly. Dealing with technical difficulties and stubborn chefs is one thing, but what about sabotage? What about murder?
1. Chapter 1

As police officer Vash Zwingli exited the hospital room, he was surprised to find a large the number of people in the waiting room down the hall.

He paused in the doorway, "How many of you are here for Mr. Kirkland?"

Most of the room stood. A teenage pair of twin boys sitting in the corner wrestled an absurd amount of balloons into submission. A leggy Frenchman with shoulder-length hair had been pacing in front of the door, and he immediately confronted the policeman.

"Excusez-moi, Officer! Is he alright? What happened?"

Vash crossed his arms, "He's stable. Listen, everyone!" He paused for a moment, "We are opening an investigation into this incident. If any of you have any information you think is relevant, contact us immediately. We will be in touch if we need to speak with any of you, but unfortunately none of you will be allowed to leave the country until you can be eliminated from the suspect list."

"Suspects?" One of the twins buried his flustered brother in the swarm of balloons and stood on a chair to see the police officer over the sea of murmuring people, "Hold this, Mattie. Wait, wait, are you saying he was poisoned? Like someone tried to-"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that," Vash interrupted.

"Poisoned?" The Frenchman went pale and put a hand on his own forehead.

A cute girl with her short blonde hair pulled back into a green hairband patted her distraught friend's arm, "When can we see him? Is he awake?"

"I'm sorry, only family is allowed in for the moment."

"That's us! Come on!" The enthusiastic twin leapt from the chair and shoved his way to the front, his brother scampering after him and apologizing from behind the balloons.

"Are you Alfred and Matthew?" Vash asked, looking them over. He supposed there was a certain kind of family resemblance, but they were not at all what he pictured when Arthur had told him he had younger brothers.

"Yes," the boys chorused.

Vash nodded to let them know they could go. The twins exchanged a look, and Alfred smiled broadly.

"Francis, could you help me with these? Please?" Matthew asked politely.

The Frenchman raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Matthew, I'm sure Mr. Bonnefoy is very tired after such a long day," The blonde girl replied, tugging on Francis' arm and sounding slightly annoyed. "We need to prepare for the challenge tomorrow and get some sleep, something to eat, and-"

"Oh, It's fine, Bela," Francis interrupted, pulling away, "I don't mind as long as the good Officer here doesn't. We'll only be gone a minute."

Vash sighed and paused before nodding again, half-heartedly, "Come right back. I'll give you five minutes."

Francis grabbed an armful of balloons and set off down the hallway with the boys, another officer showing them the way. When the officer pushed the door open to the room, the dim lighting and silence was only interrupted by the steady beeps of the EKG. The trio entered the room, focused on the prone figure in the hospital bed.

Matthew spoke what they had all been thinking, "I hope he's okay."

"Of course he's okay!" Alfred said, a little too loudly. "Artie's always okay."

{~*~*~*}

Six Weeks Earlier:

Arthur adjusted his headset and glanced over his clipboard again. This was the biggest baking competition of the year, and everything had to be perfect. Ushers were showing the audience to their seats as the lighting and sound were checked and re-checked. The teams were getting ready, setting up in the cooking stations that had been neatly lined up across the stage. Arthur paged the host, Antonio Carriedo, to the stage area, over his headset.

"Ten minutes to curtain!" He called to the contestants.

Most of them looked up and nodded in acknowledgement, but one team made no sign that they had even heard him. Arthur sighed and headed in their direction. The Vargas brothers were having a rapid, spirited discussion in Italian, their supplies arranged into messy piles or left in the boxes they had arrived in.

"Team-" Arthur squinted at his list, "…Cannoli? Ten-minutes to curtain."

The spatula the older Vargas, Lovino, had been wildly gesturing with slipped from his grasp and whizzed narrowly by Arthur's shoulder with a surprising amount of energy and landed at the foot of a camera stand. The brothers froze, Lovino's face blossoming red.

"Team Cannoli?" He boomed, whirling back to his brother, "Feliciano, the fuck kinda name is that?!"

"Only ten minutes, Lovino!" He replied nervously, changing the subject. "Thank you manager guy!"

Arthur rolled his eyes and decided to make a lap down the line, just to make sure everything else was in order. A few stations down, Chief Toris Lorinaitis seemed to be on the receiving end of a particularly icy silent treatment from his assistant. But everything else seemed to be running smoothly, or as smoothly as things could go in this business.

Arthur almost let himself breathe a sigh of relief when he reached the last station and found it completely vacant.

Oh no. "Where's team Crème Brule?" He asked, pressing a hand to his headset.

From the other side he heard the question repeated, and the sound of people scrambling around backstage.

After a moment a voice answered: "Here!"

Arthur sighed loudly, an intern must have found them, "Where is _here_?!"

"The, uh, first floor men's room," the voice stuttered back. "Chef Bonnefoy won't come out!"

"Be right there," Arthur nearly ran across the studio and bolted through the doors.

"Hi, Arthur!" His friend, Bela Maes, chirped, smiling. She waved him over to the bathroom door, standing next to a very distressed looking intern.

"Hi, Bela," Arthur replied, "Ten- minutes until curtain."

"You got it," she winked.

Arthur felt his cheeks threaten to go pink, "Where's your chef?" He asked as an excuse to look away.

Bela laughed, it was too easy to fluster Arthur. "He had to do his hair," she replied, gesturing.

Another vain chief, big surprise, Arthur thought. "Let's hope for your sake he's as meticulous about his food as he is about his hair," he hammered on the door. "Chef Bonnefoy! Are you in there? Ten minutes-" Arthur checked his watch. "Six minutes to curtain!"

There was no response.

"Francis, we have to go out!" Bela called.

"Just one more minute, s'il vous plaît," was the muffled reply.

Bela shook her head, smiling in exasperation, "I've been working with Chef Bonnefoy for three years, and he does this before every television appearance. I think it's stage fright, honestly. Would we be able to postpone for fifteen minutes? Is that possible?"

"Possible?" The image of his disapproving boss's face popped into his head. Arthur shoved his clipboard into the intern's hands and rolled up his sleeves, "Like HELL it is!"

Arthur burst through the door, "Chef! You're needed onstage immediately!"

The surprised blonde jumped and looked Arthur over for a moment, but looked back at the mirror, "No, no, désolé, I am not ready! Look at me!"

"You look fine!" Arthur snapped, "Look, I don't know who the hell you're used to working with here, but I'm not going to bend backwards to accommodate one chef!" He lowered his voice, "Not get your ass out there, or I'll have you disqualified."

Francis' eyebrows shot upwards and he looked back at him, "Do you have any idea who I am? I am the world-class award-winning-"

"Yeah, so you're good with food!" Arthur threw up his arms impatiently, "So is everyone else out there on that stupid stage! I don't have time for this! Are you coming or not?"

Francis paused, as if actually thinking it over.

"Um, Arthur," A voice crackled over his headset, "We start in two minutes."

"Oh, for fuck sake," Arthur muttered.

Bela and the intern waited patiently outside. The sounds of a struggle came from behind the door, and lots of swearing in several languages.

Bela looked at the intern, "Is this your first competition? It's a lot of fun, huh? I love it."

The two men tumbled out of the door and continued to fight all the way back to the stage. The countdown to going live started in Arthur's ear, and he managed to shove Francis into his station around the count of '7'. The Chef irately tugged his shirt back in place and made comments to Bela under his breath in French as she cheerfully took her spot.

Antonio smiled brightly at the camera and Arthur took up his spot near the edge of the stage around count of '4'. Arthur didn't bother to fix his disheveled look, he pretended as if nothing had happened as the intern gave him his clipboard back. He thanked him for holding onto it.

2…1… "Welcome to the fourth annual world baking competition!" Antonio beamed. The crowd applauded. "Let's meet our competitors!"

"Your brothers are here," Eduard von Bock from the sound room said over the headset.

Arthur looked back up at the room in the back of the studio and saw him gesture to the twins, who waved excitedly. Arthur waved back.

"So, the rules are simple!" Antonio explained, "Once a week, for the next six weeks, our chefs will compete to fulfill two challenges. The team will the lowest scores will be eliminated! Of course, things can't be that simple, no? We must keep things interesting and challenging! The team with the highest score will have to choose a tool or ingredient that will be banned from the next week's competition. This week's challenge is: soufflé! You have one hour. Good luck everyone!"

Arthur swore that he saw Antonio wink at the Vargas brothers and he smacked himself in the face with his clipboard. Why must that man flirt with the competitors?

Alfred and Matthew sat down in a front- corner seat. Matthew took out his homework and spread it across his lap to work on, but Alfred just watched the competition.

"Arthur, psst, Artie!" Alfred took one of Matthew's erasers and pelted Arthur in the back with it.

"What?!" Arthur threw it back at him and missed.

"I'm bored."

"Do you homework! It's only an hour long! Look, Matthew's doing his."

"I told you," Matthew said.

"But I'm hungry," Alfred wined, "I did all my homework during study hall."

"You spent study hall throwing little bits of paper at the study monitor," Matthew corrected.

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!"

"Boys, please!" Arthur rubbed his temple, "We'll go get take out after, okay? Just hold it together until after the show."

What else could go wrong? Arthur thought, when flames suddenly erupted from one of the station stoves. He threw his clipboard down and grabbed a fire extinguisher. He shouldn't have asked.

Hello! Sorry for the slow start, it's a bit rough, but hopefully I'll be able to explain things a little bit better in the next chapter. Just for future reference, the teams competing are:

1) Austria and Germany

2) North Italy and South Italy

3) China and Taiwan

4) France and Belgium

5) Russia and Ukraine

6) Lithuania and Belarus

7) Finland and Sweden

Also, Bela is Belgium and Eduard is Estonia. Who do you think will be voted off first? Let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

Francis helped Matthew arrange the balloons into a somewhat-less obnoxious pile in the corner of the room.

Alfred settled himself into a chair by the bed, "Better get comfy, Mattie. It'll be a long night."

"Wait," Francis back and forth at the twins, "you buys aren't staying here all night are you?"

"Oh, uh… no?" Alfred scratched his head as Matthew facepalmed, "No, because that would just be stupid, right? Why would we stay here?" He laughed nervously.

Matthew crossed his arms and refused to look at Francis.

"Well, then who's coming for you? Are you going to stay with relatives?"

"Maybe?" Said Alfred.

"No," sighed Matthew.

Alfred shot his twin an anxious look.

"…No relatives?" Francis asked, concerned, "Well you can't stay alone! You're minors! I thought Arthur mentioned your Father was in town?"

The twins eyes widened, and they looked at each other.

"That bastard's in town?" Matthew said quietly.

Francis wished he hadn't said anything, "I-I thought you knew."

"I doesn't matter, he's no family to us," Alfred clenched his fists. "It's not like he'll bother us. The police wouldn't make us stay with him, right?"

"You don't think he had anything to do with…" Matthew glanced at Arthur and trailed off.

It went quiet. Francis brushed Arthur's hand with his fingers; he did not respond. He pushed the matted hair off of Arthur's forehead and frowned. This was worse than he thought. There had to be something he could do.

"Don't worry, d'accord?" Francis said aloud, "Don't worry. I'll think of something."

"Mr. Bonnefoy?" The police officer who had escorted them poked his head into the room, "I'm sorry, but you can't stay any longer. Could you come answer a few questions, please?"

{~*~*~*}

Six Weeks Earlier:

"Chef Lorinaitis," Antonio said seriously, "Your Team Spurgos not only presented a poorly cooked soufflé in the first round, your second round mini- soufflés were undecorated. So for this reason, despite your wonderful flavors, you are being eliminated. Thank you for being here."

"I did not get the help that I needed," The chef explained to the camera regretfully. "My assistant refused to help me. I suppose I should have accounted for that as a possibility in practice."

Arthur, still disheveled from his struggle with Chef Bonnefoy and slightly singed from stove fire, felt a kind of kinship with the defeated contestant. Chef Lorinaitis had done everything he could throughout the competition, but he just couldn't do it all himself. The chef's assistant strutted by with her nose stubbornly in the air without a second glance.

Arthur patted the flour-covered man on the shoulder as he passed, "Stiff upper lip."

"We have had quite the show today, folks!" Antonio continued, smiling once more. "Despite a stove fire, the competition has been incredibly close! But the winner for the week is…"

While the audience held their breath, Arthur finally let out a breath of relief. It was almost over. Alfred had fallen asleep in his seat, and was drooling slightly. Matthew had finished his homework and was watching with interest like the rest of the audience.

"Team Black Forest Cake! Chef Edelstein, congratulations!"

The audience erupted in applause. The other contestants clapped less-enthusiastically, but politely none the less.

"Now, the platters please!" Antonio said dramatically.

An intern balancing a tray with three silver platter-covers on it came forward.

"Under each of these covers is a tool or ingredient that is considered important in cooking! Whichever one our chef chooses will not be allowed to be used next week! Now, Chef Edelstein, please choose."

The chef sniffed and gestured lazily to the left-side cover. When the intern lifted it, inside was:

"An egg!" Announced Antonio.

The contestants grimaced. Arthur looked back down at his clipboard, just to make sure he hadn't missed anything. He didn't have to be there for clean-up, but it would be irresponsible to forget something.

"See you all next week!" Antonio signed off, beaming at the camera.

Arthur didn't know how that man could smile for so long, he wondered if his face hurt.

"Cut!" Arthur barked, "That's a wrap! Good job everyone, see you all next week."

Immediately, Chef Yao Wang was in his face, "Mr. Kirkland, that stove fire was unacceptable! This must not happen again, do you understand!"

Arthur took a step back, trying to understand the rapid words, "I assure you I will make sure someone looks into it. Either way, based on you score, Chef, you did quite well."

"I didn't win!" He snapped back, "If I fail because I am out-baked, so be it! But I wouldn't want to be you if my score suffers due to some poorly constructed piece of trash again!"

"Of course, Chef," Arthur's boss, Elizaveta Hedervary, replied. She put a hand on his shoulder and winked, "We will see you next week."

Yao huffed away with his assistant in tow.

"A word, Arthur," Elizaveta gestured for them to walk. The moment they were out of earshot she began to speak again, "Excellent job tonight, Kirkland. Very entertaining viewing."

"Thank you ma'am," Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, "It never goes smoothly, does it? There's always something that goes wrong."

"About that," She paused and lowered her voice, "Keep a sharp eye out for sabotage."

Arthur frowned, fantastic, "Sabotage? Why do you say that?"

"I should have warned you before you took up this project, but every year strange things begin to happen. We suspect someone is trying a little too hard to win," She shook her head, "I was sort of hoping it wouldn't begin again this year. As much as I love some good drama, we don't want someone to get hurt."

"Understood," He replied, "Any idea who it might be?"

"Well, we do have a couple repeat competitors, but none of them have won in the past, and as you know, there's never been a repeat winner."

He scratched his head, "I see, a fan perhaps?"

"Perhaps. We're increasing security because of it," She assured him. "And one more thing," She added, "We've decided to add to the grand prize. We're planning for a big reveal on the last day, so keep it under your hat."

"Really?"

"Yes, well, along with the prestige," She counted off her fingers, "cooking show special, book deal, and ten-thousand dollars…"

"What could you possibly add?" Arthur chuckled.

She smirked, "How about ninety-thousand more dollars?"

Arthur's face dropped, "o-one hundred thousand dollars?" He asked incredulously.

"Oh yes," Her smile widened and she began to walk away, "This is going to be a big season for the company, Arthur. A very big season."

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"Mr. Bonnefoy, can you think of any reason why someone would want to hurt Mr. Kirkland?"

Francis crossed his legs as he sat, facing the police officer in front of him and tried to focus, "Arthur is stubborn, he can be, je ne sais quoi, um, abrasive. We did not get along at first, but… we are," he paused, "getting along much better."

"What changed your mind?"

"Arthur, he has a good heart," Francis' head was spinning, everything was happening so fast, "He has done a lot for all of us, he makes this competition as fair as he can. If someone has hurt him, I can't imagine…" he trailed away and put his head in his hands.

Officer Zwingli looked at him with pity.

"What will happen to the boys?" Francis asked, looking up. "I-I can look after them. Arthur will be back on his feet before we know it, oui?"

Officer Zwingli frowned, "I'm sorry, but allowing a suspect to do such a thing would be highly inappropriate."

"I see," Francis was a bit embarrassed to be considered a suspect. He was used to people trusting him, but he didn't want to argue. "Take care of them, S'il vous plait."

"We will," Vash assured him, "Is there anything else that you would like to tell us? Anything strange at all?"

"Oui, oui, many strange things happen on cooking shows, believe me," Francis tried to crack a smile, "But this competition… Something else was certainly going on."

{~*~*~*}

Five Weeks Earlier:

"Oh, he's not so bad, Francis," Bela laughed, kneading dough.

The pair had come to the studio to practice the day before the second challenge. They'd glimpsed a few of the other teams, but they all tried to steer away from each other. They had no clue what the challenge would be, so Francis had made a short list of practice items and egg-less recipes.

He leaned against the counter and tapped his fingers against the list as he waited for her to finish, "I never said he was bad. I just don't want to interact with him or look at him ever again, by god did you see his eyebrows? They're enormous!"

Bela threw flour at him, "Oh stop, he's a great guy, alright? We've been friends for a long time. He can be stubborn but he's a big softie inside."

Francis raised an eyebrow and smirked, "Don't tell me you actually like him?"

"Of course I do! I just told you, he's my friend!"

"You know what I meant," He winked.

"No, of course not, you're insufferable," She giggled, "…I sometimes think he might like me like that."

"Really?" Francis found his interest piqued. He couldn't help it, he loved romance, "Would you ever consider-"

"Maybe?" She laughed again, "But honestly let's get back to work. We need to stay focused. We need to win."

Francis' face fell as he remembered what was at stake and he nodded. He went to the fridge to round up ingredients for the next recipe. Suddenly, Bela's phone went off. She wiped her hands and pulled it out of her pocket.

"It's my big brother. Sorry, I gotta take this."

"What happened to focusing?" Francis teased.

She stuck her tongue at him and walked out into the hallway. Francis had barely started to combine the dry ingredients when Arthur bustled onto the stage, looking around. He spotted Francis and made a bee-line for him. Francis' stomach dropped and he sighed.

"Chef Bonnefoy, how are you today," Arthur looked over the assortment of pastries that had been completed to avoid looking at Francis.

Francis frowned at the obviously forced pleasantries, "How can I help you, Mr. Kirkland?"

"I'm looking for Bela."

"She had to take a call."

Arthur bit his lip and checked his watch. He sighed in aggravation, "I don't have time for this. Listen, Chef, you're going to need to bring an electric hand mixer tomorrow."

Francis blinked, "Excuse-moi?"

"Yes, one of the mixers we keep here is…" He paused, "Broken."

Francis furrowed his eyebrows, "One of them? Which one?"

"I don't know!" Arthur burst out. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath before continuing, "I'm looking into it."

"…sure," Francis said in a critical tone, "Anything else?"

Arthur paused, "The challenge tomorrow is cupcakes."

Francis looked surprised, "Why are you telling me?"

Arthur shrugged irately, "Everyone else already knows."

"Hold on," Francis squinted at him, "Why should I believe you?"

"You don't have to," Arthur spat back, clearly at the end of his patience. He grabbed a cinnamon roll, looked Francis in the eye, and took a big bite, "I'm taking this," he said through the food.

"Go ahead."

Arthur was already walking out.

Greetings! I realized that things are switching back and forth a lot, but I'm going to try to stick to the important scenes and hopefully it'll come together. If any of you find bad grammar or a misspelled phrase 1) I'm so so sorry and 2)Please let me know so I can fix it! Thank you so much for reading! I'll see you next time!


	3. Chapter 3

Five Weeks Earlier:

Francis stood with his arms crossed at his station, and watched Arthur and the other staff members hurry to get everything in place. The remaining teams were set up, ready to go, and looking confident. But Francis didn't feel confident at all.

"He wouldn't do that, you know," Bela spoke up, uneasy about how little Francis had spoken that day, "Arthur wouldn't tell someone wrong information to mess them up."

"He doesn't like me," Francis replied tersely, "I don't like him either. I'm sure it would be a relief for him if I was suddenly out of his hair."

"Well, he likes me," Bela replied, "He wouldn't-"

"Speaking of his hair, it looks awful," Francis went on as if she hadn't said anything, "Doesn't he do anything for it?"

"He's a very busy guy," Bela frowned, "Listen, Francis, you need to focus. I think you're a little distracted."

Francis shook his head and took a deep breath. This situation had been messing with him more than he'd anticipated, "I'm sorry, you're right. I've been having trouble staying on task since Jeanne-"

"It's alright," Bela patted his arm, "We can do this."

"Welcome back!" Antonio confidently announced the beginning of the competition to the cameras, "Let's get started!"

Francis stretched his arms, focusing on Antonio. After a moment or so of dramatics, he finally got to the moment of truth.

"Our remaining teams must now construct, without including any eggs," Antonio paused for dramatic effect. Francis found himself chewing on the inside of his lip. "A perfect batch of cupcakes!"

The audience buzzed with excitement at the challenge. Francis looked down the row at his fellow competitors. None of them looked worried or shocked. At least two of the other teams seemed smug about the announcement. Arthur was right, everyone already had known. Francis raised an eyebrow in the Englishman's direction. Arthur glanced back, but his expression remained emotionless.

"For this first challenge of the week, they have only thirty minutes! Good Luck."

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"Mr. Carriedo,"

"Please! Call me Toni!" Antonio sat across from the policeman, smiling as always, "Everyone does! Except my Mother. She says 'I have named you Antonio; that is your name! If I wanted you to be named Toni, that's what I would have called you!' She's funny that way. I should call her; I haven't called her yet this week. I don't want her to worry, you know."

Vash blinked at him, "…That's… nice?" He cleared his throat. "Mr. Carriedo, do you know why anyone might want to hurt Mr. Kirkland?"

"Oh no, nobody. I mean he does everything, doesn't he? Nothing will get done if he's gone. Everything loves how efficiently he does his job," Antonio suddenly laughed, "Well, except Lovino."

"Lovino Vargas? Why would you say that?"

The smile slid off Antonio's face, "I was just kidding, Lovino is a good guy. He's got a bit of a temper, but he would never hurt someone on purpose. It was just a joke, wow, you guys are serious."

Vash pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to five, "Mr. Carriedo, this is a serious investigation. Mr. Kirkland could have died. I need you to tell me the whole truth, and please, show some appreciation for the gravity of this situation! Now, let's try this again: Would anyone you know want to hurt Arthur?"

Antonio thought for a second, "I don't think so. I know I wouldn't! I mean, Arthur is always running damage control for me," Antonio suddenly looked a little embarrassed, "I love to speak with people, you know? I love to socialize, I just love people! And these chefs are some of the most interesting people I know! It's just so hard to keep secrets," he scratched the back of his head.

"Secrets?"

"For, eh, a week or so I may have spilled the next challenge," he laughed nervously.

"A week or so?"

"Well, yes, I mean until the judges stopped telling me."

"When was that?"

Antonio tapped his chin, "Just this week, I guess. It's the finale."

"So, you were telling the chefs what to expect? For six weeks?" Vash summarized, shaking his head, "What does this have to do with Arthur?"

"Not all the chefs, just one," Antonio protested, "Anyway, I knew it wasn't fair for just one or two of them to know. I don't want to help cheaters, and that would be cheating, right? But I wasn't sure what to do. So I call Arthur! He makes sure everyone knows the same amount of information. It was hard to get ahold of him most of the time, he was doing something after-hours."

Vash perked up, "After-hours? Could you elaborate?"

Antonio shrugged, apologetic, "No, sorry. All I know is that he was putting in a lot of overtime. I assumed it had something to do with the competition. There's so much to do! And he's so busy anyway. It didn't seem odd to me."

{~*~*~*}

Five Weeks Earlier:

"Don't do it," Arthur muttered under his breath, glaring as Feliciano went for the studio mixer at his station, "Do. Not."

Feliciano did. Arthur held his breath as he locked the bowl into place and flipped the switch. Nothing happened. Arthur sighed in relief.

"Oh, one moment Lovino," Feliciano chirped, "It hasn't been plugged in! Now, let's see," He scrambled for the plug, "Here we are! Now where's the outlet…"

Arthur couldn't shake the mental image of the Italian bursting into flames. There might have been nothing wrong with that particular mixer, but on the other hand that might have been the one that had been tampered with. Would it simply not turn on? Would it just mix more slowly than normal? Would it blow it up like some sort of kitchen-based bomb? Would it work perfectly? He was positive that he'd told everyone to bring hand mixers, and it looked as if the other teams had bidden his advice, even Francis. Perhaps they had just forgotten. Arthur covered his eyes with his clipboard, he couldn't look.

"Chef, try this," A deep voice said.

Arthur peered around his clipboard to see that Ludwig Beilschmidt, Chef Edelstein's assistant, had left his station to hand Feliciano a hand mixer, already plugged in.

"Oh," Feliciano looked at him wide-eyed, his face flooding with an infectious smile, "Gee, thank you! Wow, you're so much taller up close! You're Ludwig, right? I'm Feliciano, are you here to help us? Don't you need to help your Chef? This is so exciting, isn't it? Lovino, look who's here!"

Ludwig slowly backed away, obviously not expecting anything more than a 'thanks', "Yes… well…" He turned and bustled back to his station, his face turning red. Chef Edelstein glared at him, but thought himself too proper to say anything.

Arthur's shoulders slumped with relief and he leaned against the rail that led to the audience seating wearily. He had so much on his plate just making sure everything ran smoothly, how was he supposed to catch a saboteur on top of that? But what Ludwig had done gave him an idea. It was worth a shot, right?

{~*~*~*}

"Chef Braginski," Antonio said, looking a little nervous, "Unfortunately, even though Team Gingerbread produced perfectly cooked cupcakes, that just did not cut it this round. Your… unconventional flavor combos were a-a deal breaker for the judges," Antonio paused awkwardly, "I'm sorry?"

"You do not like borscht?" the chef asked calmly.

"Me? Oh, uh, yes I love it. I love borscht! Obviously. But I'm not… a judge?" Antonio shrugged.

Arthur couldn't blame Antonio for being a little on edge. The chef just had that kind of effect on people. Personally, Arthur wasn't sure what to make of him.

"That's alright, little man," Chef Braginski turned his unsettling smile to the cameras, "We cannot help that the judges have poor taste."

As the team exited, he turned to the stage crew, "Thank you all for doing your best, comrades," and then he vanished down the hall.

"Well, now _that's_ over," Antonio broke the strange silence in the studio, "It's time to announce this week's winner! Let's see here," He opened an envelope handed to him by the judges, "Team Cannoli! Yay! Excellent work you guys! Chef Vargas, could you bring your fine self over here? The platter, please!"

Lovino rolled his eyes and walked over. Antonio tried to put an arm across his shoulder and Lovino pushed it off.

"Chef Vargas, Lovino, can I call you Lovino?"

"No."

Antonio laughed and tried to put an arm around him again. Lovino pushed it off again.

"Okay! Chef, please select your platter!"

Lovino confidently chose the middle lid, but Arthur saw how his hand shook when he lifted it.

"A whisk! Uh-oh!" Antonio beamed, "Whisks will not be allowed next week! Good luck, everybody! Let's see you all back here next time!"

The audience applauded.

"Cut! That's it everyone," Arthur announced, "Mr. Beilschmidt, do you have a moment?"

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"Mr. Beilschmidt, we understand you had an arrangement with Mr. Kirkland."

"That is correct," Ludwig sat stiffly in his chair, looking very serious.

"Could you tell us a little about that?" Vash asked.

"Of course," Ludwig's voice was focused and precise, but the policeman saw how he clenched his fists against his trouser legs, "Mr. Kirkland approached me after the second week of competition. He recognized that I wanted a fair competition as much as he did. He informed me that there was a saboteur about, and he needed help keeping order. He simply asked if I would be willing to keep an eye out for cheating, and to let him know if I saw anything."

"And did you agree?"

"Yes. Cheating is despicable. Competitions must take place the way they are designed, or they lose their point."

"I see," Vash wrote down something on his notepad, "Did he offer you anything in return?"

"Yes," Ludwig replied slowly, "He offered to let my team practice in the studio whenever we wish, not just during the allotted time slots. He also promised to speak with his boss about a small bit of monetary compensation. However, I never took him up on either of those offers. It didn't seem fair."

"Does Mr. Edelstein know that?"

Ludwig's face twitched. Vash couldn't tell if the man was suppressing a smile, if he was physically repulsed by the thought of his cooking partner, or if he was experiencing gastrointestinal discomfort.

"No. Mr. Kirkland and I agreed that letting the other competitors know might do more harm than good. He said letting Roderick know would be alright but-"

"That wouldn't seem fair," Vash finished.

Ludwig nodded curtly, "Of course, I wished to inform the police, but Mrs. Hedervary insisted that the affair be kept quiet. It was increasingly more difficult, as you could imagine. The sabotage seemed to get a little more dangerous every week."

"Could you tell us about that?" Vash finally had a reliable witness. He wanted to get as much out of him as possible.

Ludwig nodded, "I can only tell you what I know. But I will do my best."

Hi! This chapter turned out to be kind of transitionary, but things should start moving now! Thanks for sticking with me, see you guys next time!


	4. Chapter 4

Four Weeks Earlier:

Francis spent more time than he'd admit thinking of what he might say to Arthur the next time they saw each other. But he merely ended up more nervous than when he'd started, and over nothing. He found himself wishing that, somehow, he could avoid Arthur. That hope crumbled when he went with Bela to practice in the studio: they passed the grumpy manager in the hallway mere moments after entering the building.

"Hi, Arthur!" Bela smiled over her crate of cooking supplies, "Late night again?"

The bags under Arthur's eyes were dark and puffy, his hair matted to one side of his head. He didn't stop walking, but he nodded at them as he spoke "Of course. Sorry, can't talk now, Bela. Chef Bonnefoy."

"Mr. Kirkland," Francis looked away and winced inwardly. He felt like a coward for not saying anything else. In a split second he decided he was a lot of things, but a coward was not going to be one of them.

"Bela, I'll have to catch up to you," He said, dumping the bags in his arms in top of her box, "I'm sorry; this won't take long."

"But-" She turned to face him and he was already running after Arthur. She sighed, aggravated, and continued down the hall alone.

{~*~*~*}

"Mr. Kirkland," Francis finally caught up to the manager, "A-a word, s'il vous plait?"

Arthur shot him a guarded look over his shoulder, "Can you walk and talk, _Frenchie_?"

Francis felt his eye twitch, but followed the grumpy man anyway, "D'accord, about last week… you didn't have to tell me what the challenge was-"

"You're right," Arthur interrupted, "You could have handled it, right. I won't tell you what it is this week then. Good talk."

"No! Yes, I-I- hold on," Francis sputtered.

"Oh, I see, you want more information? I can only tell you what I'm telling everyone else," Arthur stopped outside a storage door, and peered into the darkened window, "Are we done here?"

"No we are not! For god's sake, let me finish!" Francis began to wonder if it was worth it.

Arthur's eyebrows pressed together, but he didn't look at Francis. He yanked the door open and stepped inside. Francis groaned and followed him.

"As I was saying, Kirkland, I just thought it was… nice of you? To tell me."

"Hmmm," Arthur walked up one isle of supplies and down the next, looking back and forth, "Did you see someone come in here?"

"No?" Francis' shoulders slumped in defeat, "You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Arthur didn't reply.

They finally reached a huge walk-in freezer against the back wall, and Arthur frowned at it. It had been unlocked, the cracked door letting frigid air seep across the floor and into their shoes. Arthur shoved the door open the whole way and walked in.

Francis stuck his head inside, "What is it you're looking for, anyway?"

The breath was knocked out of him by a blow to the back, his knees buckled, and Francis crumpled onto the freezer floor. Arthur spun around. The door slammed shut behind them, and the lock snapped closed.

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"Why wasn't this reported?" Vash asked, flipping rapidly through his notes.

Francis ran a hand through his hair, "Je ne sais pas, Arthur didn't seem worried. He sent Ludwig Beilschmidt a text and he let us out. I thought it was just a joke at the time."

"Do you know who did it?"

"I didn't see them."

"Did Arthur?"

That question repeated in Francis' brain like a broken record as he made his way back to his hotel room. Arthur saw a lot of things, right? Maybe he did see who locked them in. Maybe he saw who poisoned him. If only he could ask.

Francis paused in front of his hotel room and rested his forehead against the door. He squinted against his blossoming headache, and slid the keycard into the lock. He couldn't help but thinking that everything would resolve itself if, no, _when_ , Arthur woke up. And that couldn't happen fast enough.

He hated to admit it, but somehow he missed that pain in the ass. He _more_ than missed him. Francis was worried. He… He…

He was going to think about it later. Because the twin teen boys passed out on his bed required his immediate attention.

{~*~*~*}

Four Weeks Earlier:

"Well… this is new," Arthur said to himself dryly while pulling Francis back to his feet, "Are you hurt?"

Francis stretched and rubbed his back, "I feel silly," he grumbled.

"Per usual, then," Arthur's face was illuminated by the blue glow of his phone screen as he sent a text, "And you're welcome."

"For what?" Francis cried.

Arthur paused, "For last week." He snapped his phone off and his face vanished into the dark, "I appreciate the gratitude."

Francis forgot what he had planned to say. He crossed his arms against the artificial cold of the freezer, "You are welcome," he replied quietly.

"Cooking is difficult enough. In a way, I suppose I admire you chefs," Arthur said, "I could never do it on camera. I barely manage off camera," he muttered, more to himself than to Francis.

Francis felt oddly flattered. It wasn't really the compliment, but Arthur's attention that struck him as valuable. He liked the idea that Arthur was so busy and still speaking with him instead of someone else, despite the fact that there was literally nothing else they could really do in the current situation except chat. Well, they could always make out.

"What?" Francis asked himself aloud, surprised at the intrusive thought.

"Hmm?" Asked Arthur.

Francis blinked back to reality and found Arthur looking back at him across the dark space.

"Do you… _want_ to learn how to cook?" Francis asked slowly.

{~*~*~*}

The Present

Francis flipped on the light and Matthew shot up, his glasses askew. Alfred hardly stirred, completely asleep. Francis crossed his arms.

"Ah, F-Francis, hold on," Matthew stood, wobbly with fatigue and gesturing like he was going to pull an explanation from mid-air, "The apartment is still a-a crime scene, and we didn't know what to do. We don't want them to send us away! And we don't want to bother our friends from school, but we told the office we were staying with a friend and I don't know. Now we're… here."

"How did you get in my room?"

Matthew meekly pulled a key card from his pocket and handed it over, "Alfred got it from Bela. Francis? Why does she have a key to your room?"

"In case I over-sleep, that's all," Francis tossed the extra card onto the desk, "What are you trying to do?" Francis demanded, "Get us all in trouble? You need to be somewhere safe right now, and Officer Zwingli said it was _not_ alright for you two to stay with me!"

"You asked him?"

"Oui. It is out of my hands."

Matthew was close to tears, but trying his best not to show it, "Please don't kick us out, Francis."

The Frenchman looked at the digital clock on the desk and then at the exhausted teen in front of him, "Non, I…" He raked a hand through his hair, "No. We have all had a long day. You can stay here tonight, but first thing in the morning we're marching right to the station to get this straightened out, comprends?"

Matthew squeezed him in a tight hug. Francis patted his back, "Okay."

"Should I move Alfred?" the twin asked.

Francis shook his head, "Just get some sleep. I'll use the couch this time."

"Thanks, Francis."

"It'll be alright," Francis said, half to himself and half to the teen, "Things will turn out fine."

It's a little shorter this time, but thanks for reading anyway!


	5. Chapter 5

Four Weeks Earlier:

"Are you positive that you don't need to be practicing with Bela? She seemed anxious," Arthur stood off to the side in his own kitchen, looking awkward in his borrowed apron.

"We practiced all yesterday," Francis replied, getting the ingredients in order on the counter, "I believe we will do just fine."

Francis was a little surprised at how small Arthur's apartment was, but Arthur seemed embarrassed about it when he'd let him inside, so he didn't say anything. The sixth floor two-bedroom flat only had a few small windows and a low ceiling, but it was impeccably tidy. There was no wall isolating the kitchen; it was connected to the living room where the twins sat on a futon. Alfred was pretending to watch TV, and Matthew was pretending to study, but they both kept glancing over to the kitchen nervously.

"Are you sure you're not too tired or something?" Arthur sighed, crossing his arms.

Francis looked at him sideways, "I'm never too tired to cook. Do you not want me to teach you?"

"Oh, no, of course I do."

"Then stop stalling and come here," Francis turned and put his hands on his hips.

"I'm not stalling," Arthur protested.

Francis raised his eyebrows at him.

"I'm not! I'm… alright," Arthur stalked over.

The boys snickered. Arthur shot them a vicious glare, but they were already looking away.

Francis patted Arthur's shoulder as he stepped up to the counter, "There. Now, let's get started."

{~*~*~*}

The Present

Matthew awoke to the smell of pancakes filling the hotel room. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and put his glasses on. Alfred was already awake and sitting on the floor watching Francis cook like an expectant puppy waiting for a treat. Matthew rolled out of the bed and sat by his brother.

"Now everyone's awake," Francis said, not looking away from the cramped stove.

"Are we in trouble?" asked Matthew.

Francis turned, holding two plates of steaming pancakes and syrup. He handed them over and gently flicked the rim of Matthew glasses, "Yes. Eat."

Alfred had already crammed as much food into his mouth as would fit, but he tried to retort.

"Chew your food, Alfred," Francis scolded gently, joining them on the floor with his own plate.

Alfred gulped down the pancake, "Don't you guys worry, I'll explain everything to the cops!" He said confidently.

Francis sighed, "That's not necessary."

"No really! I know exactly what to say! Mattie and I were watching this cop show on TV last night and this guy-"

Francis's phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear, "Allo?" His eyes grew wide and he suddenly felt totally awake despite his uncomfortable night on the couch, "Oui, d'accord."

"That'd never work in real life," Matthew protested.

"I'm telling ya, Mattie, it's worth a shot! I think if we're convincing enough-"

"If you said that to real policeman he'd laugh!"

"I-I'll be over immediately, merci," Francis stuttered, hanging up, "Boys, finish your breakfast! That was the hospital."

They stopped arguing.

"What happened?" Matthew asked.

Francis got to his feet and left his untouched breakfast on the desk, "Arthur's awake."

{~*~*~*}

Four Weeks Earlier:

"Alright, good," Francis said cautiously, covered in flour, "just place it in the oven."

Arthur wiped his forehead, smearing baking powder across his brow, and picked up his lumpy, lopsided chicken pot pie. The twins had had stopped pretending to ignore them and had taken up a more defensible position hiding behind the futon. They peered over the edge, Alfred in a old war-helmet he had gotten at a garage sale for three dollars, and Matthew in his favorite winter hat Arthur had given him for Christmas two years prior.

"Francis! Pssst, Francis!" Matthew hissed.

"Francis, take cover, dude!" Alfred said shaking his head.

"Shut it," Arthur demanded, but he sounded uncertain.

"Relax, relax," Francis held up his palms, "Just into the oven, I will take care of the rest."

Arthur took a deep breath, and tripped. The twins dove to safety. Chicken bits, vegetables, and gravy erupted like a small food bomb. They stared at the ruined pie in shock. A tiny flame sprung up from the carnage.

Francis broke the stunned silence, chicken stuck in his hair and juices dripping down his nose, "Mais… non. H-how?"

The twins burst into laughter.

Matthew fell over, wheezing, and his hat popped off, "I-it's on _fire_?!"

"Artie's just that bad, he's just that bad!" Alfred cackled.

"Why is- it's o-on f-fire?!"

Arthur's entire face bloomed red, and he spluttered a strangely creative range of swears. Francis grabbed a bowl and filled it with water from the tap before splashing it over the fire.

"This was a horrid idea, I knew it!" Arthur pouted, wiping his face with his hand.

"Non, non! Pie is too difficult!" Francis insisted, gesturing about wildly, "Too difficult for the first lesson! This time we will eat the one I make, next time we will pick something easier to learn, oui?" He shoved his extra pie into the oven and slammed it shut, as if to trap it inside, and set the timer.

Arthur grabbed a broom that was propped up in the corner and began to irately clean up in sullen silence.

"It was a good try, for a first try, Arthur," Matthew offered.

Alfred wiped a tear away, "That was awesome. I love cooking."

"I suppose it was… rather spectacular, wasn't it?" Arthur said, stiffly.

"I have never seen anything like it," said Francis, suppressing a smile.

They looked at each other. Another wave of laughter swelled through the kitchen.

{~*~*~*}

The Present

Francis found it hard not to run down the hospital hallways. Alfred had no inhibitions about running and was out of sight before Francis could warn him to slow down. Matthew walked, but he wouldn't stop fidgeting. When they finally reached the room, they found Alfred laying across an exhausted-looking Arthur's stomach and crying.

"Pull yourself together, Alfred, really," Arthur's voice was quiet and raspy.

"I'm so glad you're not dead," Alfred blubbered, "you never gave us our allowance last week."

"God knows I wouldn't die owing you money," Arthur patted his brother on the back, "Could you get off of me, please?"

Matthew sniffed back a tear.

"Oh, not you too," Arthur's lip twitched into a weak smile, "Come here."

Arthur pulled the teary twins into an awkward embrace, muttering comforting phrases. Francis stood in the doorway, torn between wanting to give the family space and wanting to join the group hug. It felt inappropriate to intrude, he really had not known them very long, but he wanted to be a part of it; to hold them all close and share in their relief. But he could still be happy for them. He quietly sighed, a wistful smile on his face.

"What's that stupid look for?" Arthur attempted to glare across the room at the Frenchman, but he was too tired to disguise the fact he was glad to see him. "Come in here."

Francis shook his head, but entered anyway.

"They haven't sent you home yet, I see," Arthur rasped.

Francis bent down and pecked Arthur on the cheek, "You've tasted my food, Cher. I'm going to win," he replied with faux confidence.

"I believe it," Arthur's smile ghosted across his face again.

His green eyes looked so soft, vulnerable. Nothing like the stony glare that he usually wore to get through the busy workday. Francis felt a passion to stand guard until the brit was healed up and back to his old self again. A pang of anger at whoever had done this stabbed at his heart. He took Arthur's hand and squeezed it. _I'm here for you_. Arthur squeezed back, a little too tightly. _I can see that, Idiot._ Arthur gently drifted his thumb in circles against the back of Francis' hand. _…I'm glad_.

{~*~*~*}

Four Weeks Earlier:

Arthur sat on the futon, the dinner Francis had made them on a plate in his lap, and wished he had a table.

"That's what I'd do," he said to himself, taking a forkful of chicken.

"Do what?" Asked Alfred, already almost done with his serving.

"If I somehow won this competition, I'd buy a new table set. One that's more difficult to destroy," He shot Alfred a pointed look.

"Hey, why is that my fault?" Alfred complained, "It was Mattie's fault too!"

"Hey!" Matthew protested.

"How so?" Arthur asked skeptically, "From what I understand, you were the one who felt the need to body slam our old one."

"He was encouraging me," Alfred insisted, "Can I have more?" He held out his empty plate.

"Of course, it's on the counter," Francis nodded.

"If I won, I'd send Alfred to Siberia," Matthew grumbled, "…and then I'd buy my own polar bear. A real one."

Alfred rolled his eyes and sat down on the floor with his second serving, "That's stupid. What would you even do with a polar bear? It won't fit in our room, I don't think."

"It's not stupid. It's cool."

"No, you know what's cool?" Alfred stuck his arms out like plane wings, "One of those F/A-18 Hornet planes, like the Blue Angels fly! That's what I'd get if I won all that money."

"An airplane?" Matthew looked at his brother over the top of his glasses.

"No, the Blue Angels! That'd be wicked."

"I think that might be a little over budget, even if you won," Arthur said.

"Well, I think a table is _under_ budget," Alfred gestured at him with his fork, "What else would you get?"

"I'd save it," Arthur replied.

"A guitar?" suggested Matthew.

Alfred nodded, "Yeah! You gotta get a new one!"

"What's wrong with my old one?"

"It's… falling apart," said Matthew.

"Not really a guitar anymore. It's mostly duct tape," Alfred shook his head, "Let's be honest here."

"Okay, well, _maybe_ a new one, but the rest-"

"What about a new apartment?" Alfred interrupted.

"With a dishwasher," Matthew added.

"And A/C."

"And a clothes washer and dryer."

"And separate rooms!"

"And bigger windows."

"And wifi!"

"Oh, and a new laptop!"

"And-"

"Alright, alright! I get it!" Arthur growled.

Francis chuckled.

"Oh, yes, you can laugh Mr. Rich-Famous-Chef," Arthur glared, "I'm over here working my arse off, and what would you even spend that money on anyway? A sports car? Another vacation home?"

Francis's smile faded, "What makes you think I've got money?"

"You chefs are all the same. You don't get into competitions like this by being common. You have to be well-known, and in this business being well-known means you're already successful. You want another storefront, right? Another bakery or restaurant to add on to your personal chain you already have? Am I wrong?" Arthur stuffed a large bite of food in his mouth.

Francis looked down at his half-finished food, his face pink, "I do want a storefront."

"There we are," Arthur gestured triumphantly with his fork.

"But I won't get one, even if I win," He pushed a piece of carrot around his plate.

"That seems awful petty," Arthur replied with a smirk, "Just because I said-"

"It's not what you said!" Francis snapped, "I need the money to pay off debts! My wife became very ill a few years ago and it-"

"Your wife?" Arthur asked, looking puzzled.

"W-what does it matter?!" Francis stood and strode into the kitchen, depositing his plate on the counter.

Arthur got up, rubbing the back of his neck, "Ah, Francis, hold on-"

Francis was yanking on his jacket, "You're welcome the dinner!" He was out the front door already, slamming it shut.

Alfred looked from the door to Arthur, "What just happened?"


	6. Chapter 6

Four Weeks Earlier:

"Francis, wait! Francis!" Arthur dashed down the stairs, his feet in a staccato rhythm, hitting every step.

Francis yanked a scarf out of his pocket and threw it over his shoulders, not looking back, trying to speed his descent down the stairs.

"I didn't know, I-I'm sorry! It was insensitive of me," Arthur was gaining ground anyway.

Francis skipped the last few steps and strode out of the door onto the sidewalk.

"Francis!" Arthur grabbed the Frenchman's arm.

Francis yanked his arm away and stepped back. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looked everywhere, the brick of the apartment building, a crack in the sidewalk, cars going by, except at Arthur.

"Just…" Why did it always go like this? Arthur was embarrassed at how bad he was at socializing. Why couldn't he just not ruin a potential friendship for once? Arthur let his arms hang in defeat, "Talk to me."

"You," the chef shook his head, trailing off. He shrugged, and started to pace, three agitated steps back, and three forward again.

Arthur crossed his arms, patiently watching, counting the steps. He half-expected Francis to just give up and leave. He braced himself.

"You don't know," Francis tried again, "You know nothing about my life. Do you think you work hard? We all do!" He gestured widely, "You don't know…"

"I didn't mean it like that," Arthur said, "I shouldn't have lost my temper."

Francis frowned, but didn't reply, and went back to pacing.

Arthur shifted his weight from one foot to the other, "I didn't know you were married."

"I'm not," Francis sighed in exasperation, "Not anymore. She's gone, Arthur."

Arthur felt a bizarre sense of relief, followed by overwhelming guilt, "I'm sorry."

"I did all I could and it… it wasn't enough, her sickness took her anyway. It…" Francis ran his hands through his hair, "doesn't matter anymore. I need this money, j'ai besoin… If I win I can pay off my debts, most of them, and I can quit my job at the restaurant. It's all that's left trapping me back home; I'm sick of being some sort of… je ne sais- money making attraction for someone else. I can move, leave, it's what I want- I need right now." Francis stopped pacing, looking somewhere indistinct in the distance, "I can't go back to France. I need to start a new chapter in my life."

"…I know the feeling," Arthur said quietly.

They looked at each other. Cars drove by them on the street. A group of pigeons flew over.

"Do you want your apron back?" Arthur put a hand on his stomach, over the borrowed garment.

Francis tilted his head, thinking about it. He could give up. It'd be as easy as leaving now and never speaking with Arthur again. In fact, this man was even more infuriating than he had anticipated. However, it was obvious that Arthur was trying. He was trying to atone for his rudeness. He was trying to cook. But enough was enough…. For one day.

"Non, you'll need it for our next lesson." Francis began to walk away, "it looks good on you."

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"Ms. Hedervary, thank you for joining us," Vash said dryly.

She crossed her legs and smiled gently, "I assure you, I came as fast as I could. I was on the opposite coast, you realize."

"Yes, so I gathered," the policeman drifted to the coffee maker by the wall and poured himself another mug, "Coffee?"

"Yes, please. Just cream."

He placed the mug in front of her with a dull thud, and stayed standing to swig his own, "I assume you know what this is about?"

Her smile faded, "Yes, unfortunately I believe so. How is he doing?"

"He's awake."

She waited for more information, but he just took another drink of his coffee, "I see. Good."

"Why did you fail to report your saboteur problem to the authorities?"

"Until _recently_ ," she emphasized, "it seemed harmless. It was a pain, of course, but good television. I've reported everything serious. Everything from the past two weeks."

"So, what's changed?" Vash pressed, putting his cup down and leaning against the table, "And why target Mr. Kirkland?"

"I don't know," she said calmly, but her grip on the mug turned her knuckles white, "All I know is that two weeks ago I was out of the country. I did speak with Arthur on the phone to check in on things. You can check my phone if you need. But everything seemed to be going smoothly."

"What did you talk about, specifically?"

"He told me he's been receiving letters from the saboteur, warning about what the next problem will be. We talked about an audio problem, about some time-off one of the interns had to take, about the prize money…" She trailed off, her eyebrows furrowing.

Vash scribbled some notes, "What about the prize?"

"It's much higher than we've advertised," she replied slowly, "Something to the tune of one-hundred thousand dollars. Arthur is the only one on set who knows. You don't think someone… threatened him or something?"

The policeman tapped his pen against his notepad, but didn't reply.

She shook her head as if to rid herself of the thought and leaned back in her chair, "Ah, well, doesn't matter much now. You found him in his own apartment, right? Now that Arthur's awake, he can just tell you who it was. He must have some idea," She took another sip of her coffee.

"He doesn't," Vash replied curtly, giving her a strange look.

She lowered her drink, eyebrows raised.

"He doesn't remember anything."

She stared into the creamy swirls of her coffee, "Oh, dear."

{~*~*~*}

Four Weeks Earlier:

"And the challenge this week is," Antonio paused for dramatic effect, "meringue! That'll be tough without whisks! Good luck!"

Bela and Francis bustled around their station, arranging the ingredients.

"I feel so unprepared for this," Bela whispered frantically in French.

"It'll be fine, Bela," Francis replied.

"What flavors did we choose?"

"Orange. And Chocolate I believe."

Bela dashed to the fridge, but froze after she yanked the door open, "Oh no."

"What? What?" Francis came over.

"There's no oranges. They're gone."

"What do you mean they're gone?" Francis scanned the inside of the fridge.

"There's only-" she picked up a cantaloupe, "All of the other fruit is gone."

He put a hand on his forehead, "Okay… New plan…"

{~*~*~*}

"This has been a crazy week in this competition!" Antonio announced, blatantly excited, "We've had flat meringues, risky flavors, and missing ingredients! It's anyone's win at this point, or to be more honest, anyone's _loss_."

The studio was silent. Arthur didn't even hear anyone breathe over his headset. He hoped Antonio would get it over with soon. One of the Vargas brothers' eye was twitching and the other was wobbling as if he would pass out any second. None of the competitors looked like they were doing well, in fact. Chef Wang seemed to have lost the ability to blink. Chef Edelstein had actually closed his eyes, and stood with his hands clasped, like he was praying.

He noticed that even Francis looked pale, his forehead shiny with sweat, jaw tense. His hair was pulled back in a bun, but it had started to come loose and gotten messy. A pang of jealousy shot through Arthur when he noticed Bela was tightly clutching Francis' hand. Arthur sniffed, caught Antonio's eye, and gestured for him to wrap it up.

"The team who will no longer be joining us is…" Antonio swept his eyes over the teams once more. He winked at Romano Vargas who shook his head slowly, very obviously grinding his teeth. "Team Blueberry Pie. I'm sorry Chef Vainamoinen. Your meringues were much too… spicy for our judges."

The blonde man shrugged, looking a bit relieved, "What I thought was cinnamon was actually cayenne pepper! I should have labeled them better. Things like this happen, you know?"

"Better luck next time, Tino," Arthur said as the team walked by him.

Tino smiled, "Thanks, Arthur. See you Wednesday."

Arthur nodded. When he looked back Francis was staring at him with an odd look on his face.

"Now, the team who got the most points this round was… Team Mooncake! Congratulations Chef Yao Wang!"

The chef took a long, deep breath, looking more exhausted than pleased.

"The platters, please!"

The intern brought the plates out. The chef scanned all three, as if trying to divine what was underneath them, but then hastily took the one to the left.

"Ohhh, flour!" Antonio grinned, "That'll be a tough one to do without! We will see you all next week! Get some rest, goodnight everyone!"

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"You really don't remember anything?" Matthew asked, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the hospital bed.

"Not a thing," Arthur replied wearily, his eyes closed, "you boys left for school, and then I woke up here. The police said it happened in the afternoon… but it seems I've lost the whole day."

"So you're saying… it could be anyone," Alfred said, wandering around the room.

Francis had pulled up a chair and was leaning against the bed, his chin on his arm and his other hand in Arthur's. He watched silently, thinking, as the conversation went from person to person.

"Good job, genius," Matthew retorted, "no kidding."

"Matt, please, be nice," Arthur said.

"I'm sorry," he grumbled.

It was quiet for a moment. Then both of the twins tried to speak at the same time.

"We should tell them it was-"

"Why didn't you tell us Dad-"

Arthur's eyes opened, "What?" he croaked, "One at a time."

"We should tell them it was that bastard," Alfred said seriously, stopping to stand by Matthew, "He'd never bother us ever again."

"Quoi?" Francis sat up, "Someone is bothering you?"

"Well, no, not right now," Alfred itched the back of his head, "But he always comes back to town every few years and asks to see us."

"Who?"

"Our father," Arthur explained. He sounded as if he wanted to be angry, but simply couldn't summon the energy, "First of all: no. Absolutely not. That's _illegal_ , Alfred. We know he couldn't have done it. Second: you don't have to worry. He can't go anywhere near you boys."

Alfred leaned against the bed and crossed his arms, grumbling.

"Why didn't you tell us Dad was in town?" Matthew asked quietly.

"I was busy. I should have made time to mention it," Arthur rubbed his face with his free hand, faltering, "but I didn't want you to worry about it, okay? Like I said, he can't go near you."

Any color that had returned to Arthur's face had slipped away once more. Francis could see his hand shaking.

Francis stood, "We should let you sleep," he said softly.

Francis looked at the twins and tilted his head toward the hall. Matthew silently got off of the bed. Alfred groaned, but straightened up. They both gave Arthur a quick hug.

"Stay out of trouble," Arthur said.

"I know, I know," said Alfred, walking out the door.

"We will," said Matthew, following.

Francis gave Arthur's hand a farewell squeeze, but Arthur wouldn't let go.

"A moment," Arthur took a deep breath.

Francis paused, "Yes?"

"I spoke with Officer Zwingli. He knows the boys snuck over to your hotel last night."

"Ah," Francis wrinkled his nose, but attempted a smile, "yes, they did. I was just about to go talk with him."

"No need," the corner of Arthur's mouth twitched into a brief smile, "I requested they stay with you until I get out. He didn't like it, but as long as there's an officer with you, he agreed."

Francis raised his eyebrows, "There's no one else for them to stay with?"

"Not in town," Arthur sluggishly shook his head, "I'm not going to send them half-way across the world just because I'm sick."

"Arthur, you've been _poisoned_ ," Francis protested, "I'm sure they'd understand."

Arthur shot him a look, but kept talking, "The boys like you. I trust you. I know it's a big request…"

"Say no more," Francis took Arthur's hand in both of his, "Of course I will look after them. It's no trouble at all."

"Stick together, please," worry was seeping into Arthur's expression, "stay safe."

"We will," Francis brushed Arthur's cheek with his hand, "I promise."

Francis pressed his lips against Arthur's forehead, and pulled him into his arms. When he had agreed to do this competition, this is not what he pictured would happen. He could have never imagined something as odd as this. "I promise."

Goodness, finally moving on to the next week! Now the plot thickens… sort of. I hope I can remember to include everything. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

Three Weeks Earlier:

Arthur dropped his headset and clipboard onto his barely-used desk chair, ignoring his desk that was crowded with papers, and glanced at his watch. He grabbed his coat he'd draped across the back of the seat and began to make his way out of the building. He took the long way out, making sure all the lights were out and all the doorways shut. It wasn't part of his job, technically. It was a habit from when he worked security years ago, and he couldn't seem to shake it for some reason. When he exchanged a greeting with the current night guard on the stairs, he mentioned something was going on in the first floor practice kitchens.

"Someone's still here?" Arthur mused to himself, stepping into the hall.

Light spilled across the floor from a crack under the door, but what immediately caught his attention was the muffled angry shouting. A second later the door burst open and Bela stormed out in a cloud of flour, taking off her apron. She threw it into a crumpled heap on the floor, shot one last angry French phrase back into the kitchen, and stormed out without a glance at Arthur or anything else. She slammed the main doors behind her, causing a bang that rolled through the hall.

Arthur cautiously picked up the apron and stood in the open doorway. Flour and powdered sugar was settling to the floor. Francis stood at the counter, kneading a ball of dough. Arthur paused to watch him for a moment. Even though he worked in sullen silence, Francis had an expert gentleness in his touch, and he easily manipulated the dough; twisting and turning his work with fast, nimble fingers. The rhythm of the activity was mesmerizing to watch. There was something about it that made Arthur's stomach flutter.

Was his throat always this dry? Arthur swallowed, "A-hem," Francis looked up.

"Um, Bela dropped this, I believe… Chef," Arthur held out the apron.

Francis scratched his forehead with his thumb, leaving a smudge of dough, "Oh-h, yes, merci. I suppose you must have heard?"

"A little," Arthur laid the apron across an open spot on the counter, "this competition seems to have everyone on edge, doesn't it?"

Francis grabbed a bowl and plopped the dough inside, "Someone told her we were in the bottom two last week," he explained wearily, "She's very upset and wanted to keep practicing. But there's only so much we can do. Becoming exhausted is not going to help us."

Arthur frowned.

Francis began to put things away, and looked over the spilled ingredients and dirty dishes, "Ah, what a mess."

Arthur stepped up and wiped the dough off Francis' forehead, "What a mess indeed."

Francis raised his eyebrows in surprise and rested a hand on Arthur's waist.

Something flickered behind Arthur's green eyes, and Francis was slightly disappointed when the other stepped away, rolled up his sleeves, and grabbed a stack of dishes, "We best get started then."

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"I thought it was a good idea," Alfred sulked as they headed out of the hospital.

"I didn't think it was a… totally _bad_ idea," Matthew added quietly, examining the stretched-out cuffs of his sweatshirt.

"Why does he have to defend him all the time?" Alfred clenched his fists, but quickly unclenched them and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"You really don't like this man?" Francis asked, a stride behind them "What's he done?"

The twins both stopped dead in the tracks and shot him a look: Alfred one of frustration with his chin up and Matthew one of sadness with his head dipped, as if he was trying to hide behind his glasses.

"Désolé, I don't mean to pry," Francis rubbed the back of his neck.

Matthew looked at the ground. Alfred quickly shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking agitated, "You didn't know, dude. It's just… it's stupid, the whole thing."

"Our father has… a drinking problem," Started Matthew quietly, "He's so loud, and he gets mean… V-violent. When our mother got sick it got worse."

"Arthur stood up to him," Alfred added, gesturing, "he didn't want us hurt."

"He'd get messed up bad sometimes," Matthew exchanged a look with his brother.

Alfred squeezed Matthew's shoulder, and Matt continued, "One day Arthur had us pack our bags and hid them in his car. After mom's funeral we got outta there, still in our tuxes and everything."

"The custody battle sucked," added Alfred with a dry laugh, "But the terms were clear. He stays the hell away!"

"And now he's come into town," Francis said with realization.

"Claims he's cleaned up," said Matthew, "again."

"I don't believe it for a second," spat Alfred.

{~*~*~*}

Three Weeks Earlier:

"There we are," Arthur stacked the last clean bowl.

Francis breathed a sigh of relief and leaned against the counter.

"You know, Bela doesn't need to worry," Arthur adjusted his shirt sleeves, "The next challenge is macarons. No wheat flour necessary, oddly enough."

Francis looked at him sideways and let out an off-balance laugh, "of course."

Arthur half-smiled, glanced at his watch again, and grabbed his jacket, "Let me buy you a drink."

"What?" Francis' eyes widened and he felt more awake than he had all day.

"You look like a man who could use a drink," Arthur said over his shoulder, disappearing through the door.

Francis' heart skipped a beat, and he scampered to catch up.

{~*~*~*}

It was a cozy bar, buzzing with patrons and small tables. A short plywood platform littered with sound equipment and instruments was against the far wall. The crowded, worn wooden bar itself was against the right-hand wall. The moment they entered, Arthur paused, looking puzzled.

"Something wrong?" Francis squeezed his elbow.

"No, no," Arthur blinked his confused expression away, "It's just more crowded than I expected. How about you find us a table, and I'll get the drinks? What'd you like?"

"Chardonnay, if they have it."

"Right, okay," Arthur squinted over at the bar, "Is that red or white?"

Francis let out an exaggerated sigh, but he smiled, "…white. You know for someone who works with chefs…"

Arthur shoved him, but smirked back, "shut up."

"I didn't say anything," Francis laughed.

Arthur shook his head and waded toward the bar through the crowd. Francis scanned the tables, and found most of them were already full. Two very familiar faces caught his eye near the back and curiosity got the better of him.

"Who let you boys in here?" Francis teased, "May I join you?"

"Hi Francis," Matthew barely looked up from his book, but he shot him a small smile.

"Are you here for the show?" Alfred asked excitedly and the Frenchman sat down.

"Show?"

"Sorry, all they had was red," Arthur put the glass down in front of Francis and sat in the last open chair with his own pint of beer, "Why are you two here? I thought you were studying at Kiku's house?"

"That was yesterday," Alfred tilted his head.

"Was it?"

Matthew finally looked up and closed his book. The twins glanced at each other and grinned.

"What?"

"Kind of crowded today, isn't it?" Matthew remarked.

"Well, yes, for a Tuesday," said Arthur.

"It's Wednesday," said Francis, swirling the wine in his glass experimentally.

Arthur froze, "Sorry?"

"It's Wednesday," Alfred laughed, "Did you really forget?"

The twins chuckled as Arthur rubbed his eyes.

"That explains it," Arthur grumbled, "Yes, It looks like I did forget," he pushed back his chair and stood, picking up his drink, "Francis, The boys and I are going to play a few songs, but you don't have to stay. I'm terribly sorry about it, I can't believe I forgot."

"Yeah, you only do it every week," Alfred teased.

Arthur glared at him. Francis smiled softly, "It's fine. Another time then."

Arthur nodded, and disappeared once more. Francis' shoulders drooped and he looked into his velvety, sour drink, disappointed.

"Are you guys on a date?" Alfred asked, beaming.

"I don't think so," Francis replied glumly.

"You're going to stay though, right?" Alfred looked excited enough to bounce out of his seat, "He's good!"

"Don't look so down," Matthew said, comfortingly, "Arthur won't say so, but he likes you too."

Francis looked up, surprised, "How-"

"We're a little smarter than we look," Matthew shrugged.

Alfred's rambunctious laugh rose above the noise of the crowd and lifted Francis' spirit, at least a little.

"I suppose I could stay for a little while… is that Chef Vainamoinen?"

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"Here you are, Officer," Ludwig Beilschmidt handed over a small group of papers, clipped together, "This was the last one we recieved," he tapped on the top paper, "But they've been absent the last few weeks."

"Lights, Camera, Action," Vash read aloud, "… very funny," he said dryly.

"I hate puns," Ludwig frowned.

"Computer typed, Times New Roman, generic paper," Vash mused, flipping through the papers, "Could be from anyone. Do you know where he was getting them?"

"Mr. Kirkland said they were left on his desk," Ludwig folded his arms, "I know he locks the door at night, but many people have keys because he doesn't come in to work until his brothers are at school."

"Interesting," Vash ran a thumb over the edge of the stack. Questions zipped through his mind, one after the other. He felt as if he did not have all of the facts, even though he had this important clue in his hands. There were so many pieces in play in this case, but none of them seemed to be connecting.

He was clearly missing something. What was he missing?

{~*~*~*}

Three Weeks Earlier:

The band was nowhere near to a polished, studio-rehearsed group; they had too many quirks. The lead singer of the band was an enthusiastic Dane who occasionally slipped into his native language and back, apparently without noticing. The pale-headed drummer sat, looking sleepy, but he carried out complicated rhythms with appropriate gusto, and without breaking much of a sweat. Arthur and Tino both played guitars, but they swapped the bass and lead guitars depending on the song. Sometimes Arthur sang back-up vocals, but Francis thought he should sing lead. His voice buzzed pleasantly and blended with the pulsing movement of the music. Francis had no clue the stiff Englishman was so talented.

Arthur seemed happy on the small stage, still in his work clothes. He was obviously having fun as he rocked his body along with the music. He didn't really dance, but to Francis the self-expression in the activity was obvious and had beauty to it because of that.

And either the crowd was loving it too, or they were all much too drunk. It was only a small, cramped bar, but the energy was fantastic. Francis could see why they kept coming back. When the Dane finally yelled, "Thank you, godnat!" it felt way too soon.

"Did you like it?" Alfred beamed, "I told you it was great!"

Arthur had stepped away from the stage and was chatting with Tino. Francis downed the rest of his mystery wine and stood. He weaved through the dispersing bar crowd to come up beside them.

"Chef," greeted Francis.

"Chef," Tino smiled, "thank you for coming! I didn't know you were into this sort of music."

"I didn't know either," Francis felt the alcohol buzz hit his brain, "You were all fantastic."

"Thank you, thank you. Ah! I must be going," Tino caught the eye of someone in the crowd and was already walking away, "It was nice to see you."

Arthur ran a hand through his messy hair, sweat seeping through his shirt, "So what did you really think?" he teased.

"Cher, you were as good a musician as I am a chef," Francis gestured dramatically.

Arthur laughed, "I don't think I'm _that_ good."

Francis blushed, and his face became serious, his blue eyes soft. He stepped forward and kissed him.

"…Merci," Francis said in a hushed voice, "That means so much."

And he swept out, leaving a shocked Arthur with his hand over his mouth.

{~*~*~*}

The Present

The taxi ride to the boy's apartment was tense and quiet. Alfred stared out the window, frowning. Matthew wouldn't stop fidgeting with his hands.

"Do you think they're going to cancel the competition?" Matthew finally asked.

Francis shrugged, "They might. Maybe they'll just delay it, if we're lucky."

"What will you do if they cancel the show? I mean with your debt?"

Alfred looked away from the window and exchanged a look with his brother.

"It will take… a while," Francis admitted reluctantly, "But I can save up and get my bakery. Eventually. There's no need for you to worry about it."

"If the person who did it is competing, would they be disqualified?"

Francis looked from Matthew to Alfred, "I'd imagine so," he replied slowly, "Why?"

"He's just thinking out loud," said Alfred, scowling.

"Boys," Francis said seriously, "If you know anything you need to tell the police."

The twins looked at each other, exchanging an unspoken agreement. Alfred groaned, but the pair silently left the cab. Francis paid the driver and followed.

******************************************************************************I haven't given up on this story just yet! I'm sorry it took so long, but it's still chugging along. What do you think the note means? We shall find out next time… hopefully. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Three Weeks Earlier:

The beginning of the day was a blur of activity. Arthur wasn't sure what he ate for breakfast, or if he ate breakfast at all. He did know that Team Crème Brulee took their spot ten minutes before the cameras began to film. He knew Francis wanted to say something because he kept looking over. But Arthur didn't walk to talk, it was too confusing. So he tried to forget what had happened at the bar, and found other things to do and to worry about. Lots of things.

"Macarons! Good luck, everyone!" Antonio announced with a flourish.

Arthur scanned the teams as they buzzed to action on the stage. He tapped his pen against his clipboard, the ominous words of the saboteur's note burning in his memory.

"How does everything look?" He asked into his headset, "Still no problems?"

"Camera Three: all clear," crackled through, "Camera Four: good, Camera Two: fine, Camera Five: trash,"

"Shut up, Phil,"

"Any worse than _normal_?" Arthur clarified, annoyed.

"…no."

"Anyone besides camera five having a problem?" Arthur sighed over the chorus of giggles, "Camera One?"

"Camera One, looks good."

"Good," Arthur's forehead wrinkled with concern, "Someone get maintenance to check the lights from the catwalk, please."

"They already did," Ms. Hedevary's voice replied, "About ten minutes ago, Arthur. There's nothing to worry about."

Arthur took a deep breath, "Very well. Camera four, pan out please."

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"Ms. Hedevary, do you recognize this man?" Officer Zwingli placed a picture on the table in front of her.

She frowned at it, "Can't say I do."

He sighed irately, "Are you sure?" he put down another picture. This one of her obviously speaking with him in a hallway of the studio.

Her face reddened. He crossed his arms, "I knew I was missing something. You never provided the names of temp staff. I had to do a little digging, and this maintenance man always seems to pop up on the payroll around this time each year. Of course you take on more staff with big events like the competition, but he stuck out to me in the records. Seems to get paid more… much more. Sabotage is good for ratings, isn't it?"

"I want my lawyer!" she interrupted, jumping to her feet. She cleared her throat and slowly sat back down, "I want my lawyer."

{~*~*~*}

Three Weeks Earlier:

A creaking noise twinged Arthur's ears. He peered up at the dark catwalk and a flash caught his eye. With a screech of metal a large stage light swung loose and plummeted toward the cameras. Arthur lunged forward, shoving the camera man clear. His clipboard skittered across the floor. Francis dropped a cookie sheet of uncooked macarons with a clang. Someone whispered frantically over the headset to cut to a commercial. Francis was next to Arthur in an instant.

Arthur was kneeling, his arm pinned against the heavy, twisted wreck, "I'm stuck," he grunted through gritted teeth, trying to push the metal away, "I'm stuck!"

Francis jammed an oven mitt between Arthur's shoulder and the burning metal. He grabbed Arthur's waist and started to pull. Arthur grimaced, but braced his feet against the base of the wreck and tried to push as well. Francis was muttering in French under his breath, too fast and quiet for Arthur to understand, but it made Arthur feel comforted, somehow safe, despite the situation.

With a slight gasp of exertion, Ludwig lifted the heavy light away and threw it to the floor. There was a stunned pause.

"Wow, Ludwig! You're so strong!" Feliciano chirped, breaking the silence.

Arthur raised his eyebrows, but before he could make a comment Francis had pulled him to his feet and was asking a lot of questions.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need to sit down? Maybe you should sit down for a while. Does this hurt? Doesn't your arm hurt? Is there a medic here? I think so, where are they? Medic!"

Voices were all buzzing, talking over each other through Arthur's headset. Francis' hands were everywhere; Arthur's shoulders, hips, face, his arms, his chest, anxiously checking for damage.

Arthur grasped Francis' hand to make it stop, "I'm fine."

"How can you say that?" Francis gasped. "How can you say 'I'm fine', you just got crushed! They have to delay the competition! Putain! Where's the medic!"

"Francis!" Arthur cleared his throat, "Ah, Mr. Bonnefoy," Arthur ripped his headset off and let go of Francis' hand. He swayed, rolling his shoulder, "Is he alright?" Arthur asked, nodded toward the intern he'd shoved. They gave a thumbs-up. "Good lad."

"Chef Bonnefoy, Mr. Beilschmidt, if you would please return to your stations," Ms. Hedevary said, hurrying down the stairs with an EMT on her heels, "We can re-set the clock ten minutes, yes?" She tapped her headset, "Can we get maintenance down here to help clean this up?"

"But, Madame," Francis began to protest.

"Francis!" Bela gestured exasperatedly to the macarons splattered on the ground.

"Ah là là!" Francis ran back to his station.

"Mr. Kirkland," She turned to Arthur was being inspected by the EMT, "I think it'd be best if you took the rest of the day off."

Arthur began to feel dazed. He felt as if it was too loud, like everyone was looking at him.

"Arthur," His boss' voice brought him back to reality for a moment. She frowned, "Go home."

{~*~*~*}

The Present

Francis stood silently in the boys' room, watching a video on Matthew's phone. Alfred stood, peering around the door frame as if someone could waltz in at any moment. Matthew sat on the lower bunk of the twin's bunk bed, closely watching Francis for a reaction.

On the screen, a slightly blurry Alfred was wearing his war helmet and singing a rock song off-key, strumming an oversized blow-up guitar in his hands. _You're so embarrassing_ , laughed Matthew off-screen. Alfred threw the blow-up toy at him. Matthew wound up to throw it back when Alfred put up a hand, _Wait, wait, I hear someone. Is Francis here_? Matthew snorted, _He's very early_. Alfred grinned mischievously, _let's surprise them before we leave_. The camera jiggled as they snuck down the hallway, but Alfred pushed his brother back before they made it around the corner. _What?_ Asked Matthew. Alfred pointed, gesturing for his twin to be quiet.

Francis felt as if his chest was being squeezed, his gaze stuck to the screen. His stomach was churning.

Arthur was sitting on the futon, a paper plate of something on his lap. Bela stood on the other side of the room, her arms crossed. She said something garbled. Arthur didn't say anything. She sighed deeply, _I'm sorry_. Arthur's shoulders stiffened. He tried to stand, upsetting the food, stumbling to the floor with a hand on his throat. _Arthur!_ Alfred ran toward him. The video ended.

Francis sat on the bed next to Matthew and put down the phone.

"I thought he had a reaction or something," said Alfred, "We didn't know it was poison until the police said something."

"Bela's been around for like, forever," Matthew said quietly, "I thought they were friends. Why would she do that?"

Francis shook his head, looking hopeless, thinking.

"What do we do?" asked Alfred.

"We go to the police!" Francis cried. He clenched his hands to stop them from shaking, "this is unacceptable!"

"If she goes to jail won't you be disqualified?"

"This is more important than money, Alfred!" He scolded, "You should have showed the police this first!"

"But, Francis," Matthew wrung his hands, "I think…. I think Arthur knows she did it. I think he's lying about not remembering."

"Quoi? Why would he do something so stupid?!" Francis stood, "We're going back to the police station immédiatement!"

"Shouldn't we ask Arthur first?"

"Non! You can ask him after, if you're still curious," Francis gestured for them to follow, striding out of the room, towards the front door, "Allez! It's time for this to be over and done with!"

Francis gripped the doorknob and swung it open, almost colliding with a tall man standing on the other side. His blond hair was spiked up, a small scar marked one side of his forehead.

"Bonnefoy," he said, "It's time for a talk."

{~*~*~*}

Two Weeks Earlier:

Arthur sat on the floor of his apartment with a nearly untouched, warm beer in his hand. He stared blankly at paper bills he had laid out in small piles in front of him and adjusted the ice pack on his shoulder. He didn't turn around when he heard the door open and close.

"It's a bit late for a cooking lesson, I think," Arthur said.

Francis sat down next to him, "I brought take-out. I'm too tired to cook."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, "I thought you were never too tired?"

Francis smirked and bumped Arthur's arm.

Arthur looked back at the papers, "It's just as well, I'm not hungry."

Francis frowned at his unreadable expression, "What did the doctor say?"

"I'm alright, a bit scraped up. It's just been a long day. I'm worried about Alfred's grades, a teacher called today. And apparently my Father's in town. But I put in a lot of overtime recently, so these bills should work themselves out for once," Arthur glanced over with a bitter smile, "You don't want to hear about this, I'm sorry."

"Non, Arthur, I don't mind," Francis reached for Arthur's hand, but hesitated.

Arthur misunderstood and handed him the beer.

"Oh… merci…" Francis took an unwilling sip and put it down, "Écoutez, I wanted to tell you… about last night…"

"That's alright," Arthur replied, looking dejected, "I know you didn't mean it."

"Non, Arthur-"

"You did it without thinking. You were drunk. We can just put it behind us? Just forget about it and move on,"

"I don't want to!" Francis interrupted, glaring, "I don't want to forget any of it! I…" he sighed, "I apologize if I hurt your feelings. I should have asked you first. But I want to… I want to know you better. I want to be close to you. Is that so difficult for you to believe?"

Arthur frowned. They looked at each other. The florescent bulb in the kitchen strained and buzzed. Alfred could be heard quietly snoring from his room.

Arthur squinted at the Frenchman, "You do realize I have no influence over judging or any results in this competition?"

Francis raised his eyebrows and burst into laughter, "D'accord! Je sais, je sais mon cher!"

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitched up, something conflicted flashed in his eyes.

"What is it?"

Arthur rested his head on Francis' shoulder. Francis stopped breathing, surprised.

"I'd very much like to get to know you too," Arthur said quietly.

The wistful meaning behind his worlds was clear to Francis. He didn't want to push their luck; who knew how much time they'd have. Francis could leave any week, and even if he won, it wasn't like Francis had to stay.

Francis put a hand on Arthur's head and gently stroked his hair. Even if they didn't have time, he'd still savor what they did have.

"By the way, who won?" Arthur asked, sounding sleepy.

"Oh, so you do care about this silly competition," Francis teased.

"Don't start."

"It was Bela and I."

"Really?"

"You don't need to sound so surprised."

Arthur laughed lightly, "You did drop a whole batch on the floor. It was anyone's game."

"I had to level the playing field somehow," Francis joked, "It's more interesting that way."

"Who went home?"

"Chef Wang," Francis yawned, the strain of the day catching up to him.

"I see," Arthur sighed, "Well, he can't blame me this time. It's about time you won, Bonnefoy. I was starting to worry."

"No need to worry," Francis replied slowly, closing his eyes "In the end, it's only money."

Hello everybody! Goodness! I apologize for the HUGE delay on this chapter, this year has been completely bonkers! I couldn't use the computer for a few months due to a concussion, and recently have been dealing with, uh, a lot of work-related stress, let's say. But I promise I haven't given up, I am still determined to finish this story and start another one, and I'm ready to wrap this one up. I hope you are all well, and Thanks again for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

The Present

"That's it, it's all over but the paper work," the officer said with a smile.

Officer Zwingli stared at the file on his desk, frowning, "I don't think so."

"What makes you say that?" the officer scratched his head, "She admitted to the sabotage."

"I'll rest easier when we've caught the guy she hired. But… it just doesn't make sense," Vash shook his head, "What's it have to do with this Kirkland guy? He didn't know it was her, and they get along well enough, why try to kill him?" He crossed his arms, "We thought from the start when we'd found the saboteur, we'd find the attempted murderer. But… no, I think these two things might be unrelated…"

The officer sighed, exasperated, "Then we're back to square one."

Vash's cell phone buzzed on his desk. He did a double-take at the text that flashed on the screen, "Perhaps not. We need to leave NOW."

{~*~*~*}

"Hand over your phones."

The twins sat next to Francis on the floor with the man towering over them. Matthew had his hand stuffed deep into his hoodie pockets, his eyes kept wandering to the door. Alfred clenched his fists, grinding his teeth and staring daggers at the man.

"Lars, be reasonable, s'il vous plait," Francis tried to take his attention away from the boys.

"I won't repeat myself."

"Alright! Alright," Francis put his hands up defensively, and reached for his phone in his pocket. Matthew looked at him sideways and reached for his own phone, but Alfred didn't move.

"Or what?" Alfred demanded, "What're you gonna do?"

Lars' face remained stoic, but he puffed air from his nose. He pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it… at Matthew. Matthew froze, phone in hand.

"Lars!" Francis threw his phone onto the floor and lunged in front of Matthew, "There's no need for this, put it away! You wanted to talk, let's just talk!"

Lars gestured for Alfred to give up his phone. He threw it bad-temperedly next to Francis'. Matthew dropped his phone from his shaking hand, and Francis slid it over.

"Là! What do you want?"

Lars picked up the phones and walked to the sink, tossing them in. He flipped on the garbage disposal; it shrieked and cracked with the dying phones.

"Hey!" Alfred began to rise to his feet, but Francis grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down.

"I spoke to Mr. Kirkland," Lars said, "He agreed not to say a word, I agreed to leave you boys alone. But apparently, he decided to say something after all," He turned back around and glared from across the room.

"What are you talking about?" Francis snapped.

"Don't act dumb, Bonnefoy. The police have been asking around for me. They have to know what happened with my sister. "

"Bela?" Alfred asked.

"No, my other sister," he shot back sarcastically, "Yes, Bela!"

"Arthur doesn't remember anything," Francis protested, "How could he say something?"

"Well someone did!" Lars waved his gun towards them, "If he didn't, it had to be one of you! No one else could possibly know!"

Francis shook his head, "Why are you here?!"

"Listen!" Lars hissed, "You're going to win this competition, you understand? You **will** win, or you'll see Kirkland _and_ these two brats buried, get it? I'm not as lenient as Bela."

{~*~*~*}

Two Weeks Earlier:

This is it, Francis thought, we're going home. The challenge was butter-less puff pastry from scratch, and he had very seriously debated what technique to use all week. But he had also, as Bela very fiercely pointed out, spent a lot of down time with Arthur and the boys. They had gone for a lot of walks, had a lot of heart-to-heart talks, and helped out with a lot of homework. Even during the competition itself he was wondering if he could convince Arthur to sign Alfred up for a tutor, despite the fact he insisted he could help him at home. When Francis had finally finished their origami-inspired tower of folding puff pastry, he realized he'd started one technique and switched to another one they'd practiced half-way.

"What's wrong?" Bela asked, panic in her voice.

Francis put his hands on his head, blood draining from his face, and couldn't look at her.

She stared at the pastry tower, puzzled, until it hit her. She gasped, "Francis!"

He shook his head, feeling dizzy.

"Alright competitors! Please move your puffy creations to the judging table!"

Ludwig picked up their pastries without help, and whisked it to the table without incident. The audience clapped politely, and so did Chief Edelstein.

Next, the Vargas brothers lifted their creation, very carefully, and began to scoot toward the table. Lovino muttered harshly under his breath to his little brother about being careful, keeping steady. They had almost made it to the table when Feliciano tripped. Pastry flew through the air. The audience, stage crew, and all four of the other competitors gasped. The younger Vargas landed on his face. Lovino stared blankly at the now nearly-empty tray in front of him.

Arthur solemnly ordered the cameras to cut to a commercial break. Lovino seemed to finally realize what had happened, and slammed the tray onto the table, sending one of the few remaining pastries bouncing. Ludwig hoisted Feliciano up to his feet by his armpits. Lovino silently stormed off-stage.

{~*~*~*}

The Present

"You're just too unfocused. I can't tell you the number of times Bela has called me upset," Lars continued, "You aren't putting in the time to practice, you're making stupid mistakes during the competition. Last week was a miracle! You're only still competing because the Italians had nothing for the judges to taste. You're more interested in socializing and making friends apparently."

"I don't understand," Francis fought off a pang of anger, but tried to look as calm as possible, "Bela and I have competed together many times! I know the prizes would be wonderful, but they're not much better than what we usually compete for. Are you in financial trouble?"

Lars shot him an annoyed look, "Don't play dumb, Arthur had to have told you. Everyone else knows!"

Vash kicked the door in with a bang. Alfred leapt to his feet and grabbed the gun in Lar's hand. A shot rang out.

"Nobody move!" Vash yelled, "Hands up!"

Francis grabbed his arm, blood soaking through his fingers. He stood frozen, his eyes wide, no longer registering the explosion of activity that erupted as police flooded into the apartment. Matthew seized the side of Francis' shirt, looking terrified. His mouth was moving, but Francis couldn't understand what he was saying.

"You're okay, Matthew," Francis patted his shoulder, smudging blood on the sweatshirt, "We're going to be fine."

And then the pain hit him.

{~*~*~*}

Ludwig stood, crossing his arms, "Did something happen? Why would Francis forfeit?"

"Turns out his assistant and her brother were the saboteurs," Vash felt as if he was repeating the story for the billionth time, "Ms. Hedervary hired this Lars guy to make the competitions more interesting, and she had reported previous sabotages to make it seem less suspicious. Unfortunately, she let it slip to him that the prizes were larger than advertised. Considering that he had come into some financial trouble recently, he saw this competition as a way to solve all his problems and start fresh. But Mr. Bonnefoy became overly stressed by the pressure from the competition and his newfound relationship with Mr. Kirkland, and that scared them into taking drastic action. Somehow they came to the conclusion that if Kirkland were sick and out of the picture, that may motivate Francis and give him the push he needed to win."

"How twisted," Ludwig frowned, "So he had to quit because Bela's been arrested."

"Well, yes, and Mr. Bonnefoy was accidentally shot in the arm yesterday," Vash continued, "Lars panicked when he found we were looking for him, because we had discovered he was the saboteur. He assumed one of Kirkland's brothers had turned in evidence against him to do with the poisoning. He went to their apartment to confront them. We were alerted to the situation, but when we arrived on the scene things became chaotic and a gun went off. We are still investigating the incident."

The small room was silent for a moment. The lines in Ludwig's forehead deepened as he thought hard.

Chef Edelstein let out a deep breath from his spot, propped daintily in a chair, "That is unfortunate. But we are more than happy to accept the win even if it is a forfeit. How should we-"

"Just to be clear," Ludwig interrupted, "Is he still willing to compete?"

Vash blinked at him, "I assume so, yes. But it wouldn't be fair, two against one."

"In that case, for the sake of fairness," Ludwig looked down at Roderick, "I quit."

{~*~*~*}

Arthur stuck out from the audience and other crew members in his large, disheveled sweatshirt and worn jeans, but he couldn't care less. He stood in the very back of the studio, at the top of the stairs looking down. Alfred sat in front of him, lounging on the steps, and Matthew stood next to Arthur, leaning against the painted cinderblock wall.

"I'll tell ya, Artie," Alfred drawled, "It's good to have you back. You almost had us scared."

"Speaking of," Arthur smacked him on the back of the head, "Officer Zwingli told me how you grabbed that gun! That was extremely dangerous, don't do it again!"

Alfred rubbed the back of his head, "Ow! First of all, I disarmed him. It was heroic. Second: you're just mad because of what happened to Francis. It was an accident, okay!"

"You could have been the one shot! You could have died!"

Alfred grumbled something about how Arthur needed to lighten up.

"I do, however, have a question," Arthur crossed his arms, "how did the police get the video evidence? And how did they know Lars was threatening you? They said everyone's phones were destroyed."

Alfred craned around, looking pointedly at his twin. Matthew stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Matthew stole your phone."

"What?" Arthur looked at him, shocked.

"It was in your room," Matthew explained, "I thought you might want it when we went to visit you again. But when Lars asked for our phones, I just gave him yours instead of mine. Texted Officer Zwingli. Gave him my phone after they showed up."

"So my phone's been destroyed?"

Matthew nodded. Arthur squeezed him in a one-armed hug and sighed, "Ah, well. I guess that was pretty clever. You're both safe now. That's what really counts. We'll just have to save up to get new ones." Arthur sat down next to Alfred and stretched his legs.

The audience began to fill up the seats, talking excitedly. A few crew members passed them on their way to the sound booth, casually greeting Arthur when they spotted him. Matthew sat down next to Alfred, fidgeting. He nudged his twin, and they exchanged a look.

"So," Alfred sat up, "Have you talked with him yet?"

"Francis?" Arthur didn't look over, "No."

"Arthur?" A crew member stuck his head out of the sound booth, "We, uh- need to ask a favor."

{~*~*~*}

Francis stood in the empty men's bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He shifted his wounded arm in the sling uncomfortably and used his good arm to half-heartedly brush his hair into place. He hung his head and put a hand over his eyes when the door squeaked open.

"Chef?" Arthur's voice echoed around the space, "You're needed on stage."

Francis looked up and a smile ghosted across his face.

"How's your arm?" Arthur stopped to stand next to him, looking at Francis' reflection in the mirror.

Francis shook his head, "I don't think I can do this," he croaked.

Arthur put an arm around his waist, "Don't be ridiculous. You're the- what was it? Award-winning-best-chef-in-the-world."

Francis chuckled, and squeezed Arthur's hand with his good hand, "I want to stay here with you and the boys," he said slowly, "I want to get to know you. All I want is to help with homework and cooking dinner. I've had enough of competing and all this… drama. What if I lose?"

Arthur shrugged, "then you lose. We'll get you back. It'll just take some more time, and a lot more work. Don't worry about that, Francis," Arthur pecked him on the cheek, "And, at the very least, you kept my brothers safe through this whole mess. We… I owe you. Thank you. Take a breath, you're out of the woods. No one else is going to get hurt."

Francis ran his thumb over the back of Arthur's hand as if to say, _I know you're right, but I'd rather stay right here._ Arthur patted his hip and took a step back, _it's not up for discussion_.

They walked out of the bathroom in silence, hand-in-hand, and headed back to the stage. Francis felt very small stepping onto the set alone. He took a deep breath and saw Arthur give him an encouraging head nod from his spot near camera one. The audience began to count down with the crew "Five! Four! Three! Two! One!"

And Francis was ready.

The End.

I'm gonna be super honest with you guys. I totally forgot about this story somehow. D: I'm so sorry! And I also apologize for how explanation-heavy the ending got. I hope it wasn't too unbearable. I think I'm going to leave it at that. You can decide for yourself if Francis won or not. Personally, I like a happy ending, but sometimes its more interesting if it's hard-earned. Anyway, thanks for sticking with me and reading! Best Wishes!


End file.
